


Goretober 2020 - Transformers

by limitedpractice



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers: Prime, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Amputation, Blood, Blood and Gore, Brain Damage, Brain Surgery, Death, Depression, Gore, Goretober, Goretober 2020, Head Injury, Horror, Implied Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Massacre, Mental Health Issues, Needles, Not Good, Other, Pain, Self-Harm, Suffering, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, bad times all around, robo gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26758873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limitedpractice/pseuds/limitedpractice
Summary: A collection of transformers fics based on various Goretober prompts. Because sometimes you just like to see your favourite bot hurt or get hurt.Tags and characters will be updated as necessary.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 26





	1. Pins and Needles - Swerve and Overlord

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for the flavour of gore will be included at the start of each fic, and the tags will be updated as necessary with warnings, triggers and whenever a new character is written about.
> 
> Realistically I won’t be able to write a fic a day for 31 days straight, so let’s think of this challenge as Goretober, vember and cember. If I can write 31 gory stories by the end of the year I’ll be happy! 
> 
> All of the fics in this collection will contain gore, but not all of them will be dark and intense. Some of them will be pretty silly, since it’s fun to mix the tone up.
> 
> Fic no.1 is for the prompt Pins and Needles, which is taken from [Drawkill's prompt list](https://drawkill.tumblr.com/post/178061910802/whos-ready-for-some-goretober-i-have-here-a/). It features Swerve, Overlord, a massacre aboard the Lost Light and a love of fingers.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Swerve sits on his favourite barstool with a drink in one hand and a congealing mass of energon at his feet and wishes he was dead. 

But he’s learnt the hard way to stop begging Overlord to kill him. 

The first dozen times he’d whimpered and screamed and pleaded with the Lost Light’s new Captain to please just kill him had been met with amusement. Which had inevitably morphed into weariness. Swerve’s mouth had once again taken on a life of its own and he wouldn’t stop talking he couldn’t stop talking, because something might get through to this insane monster if he could only string the right combination of words together and there was still a chance he could live when so many had been butchered and he’d babbled and joked and pleaded and bargained and finally Overlord had lost patience and kissed him.

Swerve had gagged and kicked out sharply, but Overlord had held him effortlessly in place on his favourite barstool. The one that still spins smoothly; the one whose colour hasn’t yet faded despite constant use. It’s a good little stool, and he wishes he’d paid it more attention. He wishes he’d thanked it out loud. He wishes he’d done so many things differently. Overlord had kissed him for longer than he thought he could possibly bear and then slowly, with a long, long, squelching sound, had pulled away. 

Swerve had vomited immediately.

Swerve looks down at the wobbling mess he’s made on his ruined bar’s floor. He starts to cry. 

Overlord chuckles. Unlike Swerve’s voice, he doesn’t find Swerve’s tears annoying. Overlord pries the glass away from Swerve's hand and goes behind the bar to top the drink up.

Tears leak out of Swerve’s visor. “I’ll clean that up later,” he whispers.

“Here you go.” Overlord says gently, as he places a glass full of warm liquid back into Swerve’s hand. He curls Swerve’s trembling fingers around it. “Drink up. It will do you the world of good.” 

Swerve wipes his face with his free hand. He looks down into the glass and the thick dark liquid it contains. His damaged optical and olfactory sensors still have enough function to warn him that there are substances in the glass that he should on no account consume. They activate their branches of his alarm network as best they can. The warnings they send out are weak and muffled and dim, but they're trying so very hard to warn him despite being damaged by Overlord’s backhanded blow earlier. 

The cocktail looks like an overlaid grid of sharp lines and even sharper ends through his broken visor. It looks like it’s made from poisoned energon that would kill him after one sip. Maybe it will do him the world of good to gulp it down in one go after all. 

Swerve lifts the glass to his lips. And pauses. A niggling thread of his old life vibrates and plucks at him. Swerve tilts his head, and watches light from the shattered overhead lights illuminate the drink. He rotates the glass slowly. The liquid inside changes colour. But not permanently - it’s moving in and out of a different molecular state depending on how much direct light touches it. That must mean there’s optical contraction liquid in there. There’s part of someone’s eye in there.

Swerve shudders but doesn’t look away. And he certainly doesn’t throw the drink and smash it against the wall and scream and scream and scream. 

“Not your cup of tea?” Overlord asks him softly, his lips brushing Swerve’s ear.

Swerve startles violently, and spills the drink over himself.

“Oh dear,” Overlord says. “I spent a lot of time making that for you.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I'm sorry.”

Swerve paws at himself with one hand in a pathetic attempt to clean himself and return the drink to its glass. Liquid crawls down his plating and seeps into his transformation seams and sticks to him and it won’t come off, he knows it’s not ever going to come off of him. His fingers are covered in it. 

“Thank you for making it for me and I’m sorry I spilt it but I appreciate it I do I really really do,” Swerve babbles, as he glances down at himself and tries and fails to ignore the horrible tingling in his fingers. The sensors in his hands have erupted at the onslaught of chemicals sticking to them and they’re screaming at him, they’re screaming so loudly at him that it hurts.

“You clearly worked hard on this drink because I’m detecting things in it,” Swerve continues, because he’s never known when to stop talking. “There must be three, no four, no five, no...six? Six? There are different parts of six different people in here? Six. Six people. Six people liquified and mixed up to make this drink.”

Swerve looks at what remains of the drink. He swallows back another glob of vomit fighting to escape.

Overlord crouches down in front of him. There’s an expression in his eyes that Swerve doesn’t care for one single bit. He doesn’t care for any of Overlord’s expressions, but this one is unsettling because he hasn’t seen it before.

Overlord looks impressed.

“How did you know that?”

As always when he receives genuine praise, Swerve chuckles self-consciously and pretends not to fully understand. “Oh it’s nothing special, it’s just something I can do. It’s nothing. I’m nothing.”

Overlord’s expression then melts into one that Swerve is already achingly familiar with - impatience.

“You are refusing to answer my question.”

“No I’m not I swear I’m not.”

“How did you know that drink is made out of six people?”

Swerve unconsciously waggles the fingers of his hand that’s not holding the glass. 

“I, uh, just can,” Swerve says. “And I know I just said that but it’s the truth I’m not lying or refusing to answer you I swear it! I just...can. I was forged with these fingers.” 

He flexes his fingers as if playing an invisible instrument with them. 

“You are a chemist?” Overlord asks. 

“Metallurgist. A good one. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe. Ha. These, uh, my fingers, they- they’re tools of the trade. Essential actually.”

Overlord gently rests Swerve’s hand onto his palm. “Tell me about them.”

Swerve fights down another ball of vomit. “Uh...when we’re out in the field. Or in the lab. Or anywhere. And by we I mean metallurgists as a whole, not bartenders, not me, not-”

“Swerve.”

“Right. Yes. Fingers. Hands. I was forged with them and they’re brilliant. I mean I’m not brilliant, but my hands are. All metallurgists’ hands are. They’re essentially one big databank studded with sensors and coated in scanners that can identify every substance and chemical composition ever discovered. So long as it’s been recorded. Each finger has a neural link communications wire that goes up to my brain after it’s passed through my spark and t-cog, and it can download the latest materials update from the Academy when the Chief's second assistant remembers to send out the update after spending their day on more important things like sleeping at their desk, which means that if a new element or compound is discovered and recorded I’ll know about it.”

Swerve swallows dryly.

Overlord doesn’t say anything. Swerve chooses to see this as an encouraging sign.

“Some people say that my hands are better than medics’ hands. I don’t of course. And neither do the medics. They think theirs are way better. Well some of the forged ones do, even if they don’t say it out loud. You can always tell that’s what they’re secretly thinking though. And, uh, theirs are good of course - they’re better than mine in lots of ways. They’re faster and lighter and more dexterous. But mine are just as sensitive. And mine are studier and stronger. They’re more durable. They have to be, because if you’re out working in the field and a boulder lands on your hand you don’t want your fingers to be crushed because then what would be the point of keeping you around? They’re designed to survive rough treatment.”

Overlord holds Swerve’s hand up in front of his face. “Are they now,” he says softly. 

Swerve’s weak sparks dims further.

“They sound magnificent,” Overlord says.

“Uh, yeah, thank you. Thanks. Um. They’re pretty good. I kinda like them. In fact I like them a lot.”

“So do I.”

Overlord runs a huge fingertip up and down Swerve’s smallest stubby finger.

“So tell me,” Overlord asks pleasantly, “Who is in your drink?”

“...excuse me?”

“By using the power of your fantastic fingers, tell me who is in your drink. Let’s play a little game together.”

Swerve’s visor dims in tandem with his spark. “...I…I don’t...”

“I am not going to ask you again.”

Swerve looks down at his short feet dangling off the barstool and wishes he was dead.

“Uh…” he forces himself to concentrate. He forces himself to stick two fingers into the liquid in the glass. He forces himself not to yank them back out and immerse them in a vat of paint stripper. He pushes them down further until the fingertips touch the bottom of the glass. His exquisite sensors fire up and explode with data. He pushes that data up the wires that run through his fingers to his body’s connection points: spark, t-cog, brain module. He pushes past the roadblocks all three of them have desperately thrown up to try and prevent him from knowing. He collects. He investigates. He analyses. He identifies all six of his former crew members and wishes he was dead.

“Rodimus,” Swerve answers in a small soft whisper that makes him feel like he’s nothing. “I can feel remnants of his spark casing. It was touched by the Matrix and I can feel it. It’s still there. It’s still pulsing. Oh, god, it’s still pulsing.”

“Good!” Overlord beams. “Very good! Our former Captain made the mistake to keep talking to me when I’d asked him to be quiet, so he was the last to undergo this treatment. He got to watch the others go first.”

There are pins and needles in Swerve’s fingers. They crawl up into his spark and scratch at it with poisoned tips and he knows that they’ll never stop.

“Who are the others?”

Swerve recites their names quickly and doesn’t embellish. 

“Excellent,” Overlord purrs. He examines Swerve’s fingers. “I like these Swerve. In fact I think I like them a lot.”

“...thank you?”

“They could be very useful to my endeavour.”

“Yes I can be useful to you,” Swerve bursts out, as his self-preservation kicks itself into high gear and steamrolls his earlier thoughts of self-destruction. If he’s useful then he might be kept around. He might be allowed to live.

“I am going to have your excellent fingers for myself.”

Swerve’s too wide smile freezes. He feels his plating stretch and warp and start to buckle as he realises what Overlord is planning to do.

Overlord holds Swerve’s hand tightly and fans all of his fingers out. 

“No!” Swerve screams. “Don’t cut them off! They won’t work as well if you cut them off! Please don’t cut them off I’ll be good, I’ll be good.”

Overlord blinks. And then smiles slowly, like a smouldering black sun rising over a toxic yellow wasteland. “I don’t remember saying anything about cutting them off.”

Overlord jams two of Swerve’s fingers deep into his mouth and bites down hard.


	2. Sensory Loss - Red Alert and Rung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red Alert isn't having a good time with his life, and asks Rung for help in making his pain stop. And because he's a good friend, Rung provides it. But that doesn't mean he has to like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: self harm, self mutilation, depression, mental health problems.
> 
> I love Red Alert a lot and wish him nothing but peace and happiness, despite what he goes through in this fic.

Death comes slowly in the Great White Nothing. 

And that’s because it gives you time to live instead.

It is peaceful. Pure. Devoid of external threats that are out to get you. It is a landscape without bright colours and hidden corners and screaming sounds. It is a blank canvas where one can start again and populate it with things unhidden that won’t hurt all the time. It’s soothing. Neutral. A respite and a second chance. It is a blank slate that you are in control of. Red Alert knows that this place exists. He’s visited it on occasion, and now he wants to move there permanently. He needs to move there.

Rung still isn’t convinced. But Red Alert doesn’t need Rung to be convinced. What he needs is for Rung to keep a steady grip on the pneumatic drill he’s holding and to remove his glasses so that he can wipe his eyes. Red Alert is not worried about Rung’s aim being affected by a curtain of optical fluid - he’s simply worried about his friend. This is a good thing that’s happening to him. There’s no need for tears.

Red Alert knows that Rung will hold steady. 

He won’t fail him. He never has. He also knows that Rung doesn’t need glasses as a visual correction aid. He knows that Rung wears glasses so that he can have a small barrier between himself and the world. His glasses are for protection and distance, and Red won’t remove this modicum of comfort from his friend by asking him to dry his eyes and rejoice at what his hard work has accomplished. 

“Red.” 

Rung is finding it difficult to speak. The word is thick and cloying in his mouth. Red Alert can practically taste it. It tastes of regret and hope and sits hot and heavy on the middle of his tongue. Rung is struggling. But he’s not giving up. He’s not backing away. Rung never gives up on a friend.

Red Alert smiles a smile like a flickering electrical light one worries is the harbinger of a power outage. 

“Thank you,” Red Alert says again.

Rung makes a sound that Red Alert doesn’t enjoy hearing. But this won’t last for long, so Red Alert doesn’t comment on it.

“Do you need assistance?” Red Alert asks. “I can help hold it?”

Red Alert feels Rung shake his head. It is a soft and slow movement that gently disturbs the invisible matter living in the air around them.

“No,” Rung says. “Just- just relax Red. Just sit back and relax.”

Red Alert relaxes back into the chair. 

“And then you can rest.”

There is a pause. 

It is long and silent. 

Red Alert’s anticipation matches Rung’s hesitation and the two bleed into each other and cancel each other out. This stalemate continues for another long pause. 

“Are you ready?” Rung finally asks. He’s been crying silently but openly. That’s always been a quality of his that Red has admired. 

“Yes,” Red responds. “Are you?”

Rung adjusts his grip on the pneumatic drill he’s pressing up against Red’s ear. Its spiralled tip scrapes against his exquisitely sensitive plating.

Rung continues to hesitate. “Are you sure?”

Red Alert’s electrical smile melts into a mechanical one. It reaches up into the gaping black holes where his eyes used to be and makes them shine. 

“Yes.”

Rung makes another sound that Red Alert won’t miss hearing. 

They both know this is for the best. Rung has fought him for millions of years against this course of treatment, and his arguments are valid. But they are not right. Red Alert experiences too much, and is breaking under the relentless assault of sights and sounds that have locked onto him as their target. He is buckling under the misery of it all. What is the point of existing in a world of colour and sound when you can live in a world of white instead? In the Great White Nothing Red Alert will still have his imagination. But it will no longer be corrupted by the black and red that infects the space outside of it. He can live outside of surveillance and doubt and worry. He can be free.

“My circuits and connections have been cut?” Red Alert asks once again, just to be sure. “The brain module mapping laser has scorched the relevant fields? They are burnt?”

Red Alert feels Rung nod. 

“Please,” Red Alert says. “Please continue. You know this is what I need. You know how much I’ve improved.”

Rung doesn’t respond. Rung has many arguments against this statement, but none of them are right. And that’s because Red Alert showed a remarkable improvement in his mental and physical health after Rung removed both of his eyes. 

For the first time in his life, he could see what he wanted to. He could see what was actually there. Rung’s acute concern that his imagination and memory bank would flood his optical processor with nightmare nonsense had failed to come true. Red Alert sees nothing now. And it feels blissful. 

Red Alert reaches out without hesitation towards one of Rung’s hands. Not the one holding the drill, but the one that has a death grip on the edge of the chair. He engulfs Rung’s small hand and squeezes it gently.

“I’m proud of you,” Red Alert says.

Rung extracts his hand from underneath Red Alert’s. Rung’s strength will forever be phenomenal. 

After a brief hesitation, Rung rests his hand on top of Red Alert’s. He squeezes it hard. “I’m proud of you.”

Rung activates the drill. It roars and spins and screams. 

Rung pushes forward. The drill bit bites into Red Alert’s ear. 

Red Alert feels chips of metal splinter away. He feels Rung remove his hand from his. Now that Rung has both hands on the drill, he can perfect his aim and lean his entire body weight into the tool. 

Slowly, slowly, Rung pushes the rotating metal cylinder down Red Alert’s ear canal. Shards of metal and strands of wire and drops of fluid spatter onto his face. Over the horrendous roar of the drill and a blooming mist of pink energon, Red Alert hopes that Rung can read his smiling lips once again say “Thank you.”


	3. Crawling From Within - Sunder and Froid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunder is taking steps to rehabilitate himself, and one of those steps is to find out how his old friend and colleague’s mind works. To prepare for this, Sunder has consulted a couple of teachers on board the Lost Light. He's learnt a lot from them. And now it's time to put that learning into practice.  
> Now it's time to go and visit Froid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for internal and external head injuries, violence, brain surgery, and suffering while still alive but unable to do anything about it.

Sunder takes a hammer to the back of Froid’s head with such force that it cracks the handle.

Froid collapses to the ground with a slump and a crash, as if he’s never had legs to begin with and the illusion that he can walk upright under his own volition has suddenly lost patience with existing. 

Sunder peers down at Froid in what he suspects is interest. 

Sunder isn’t startled by the ease with which he’s knocked Froid out. He’s spent time learning how to deliver a controlled blow to the back of the head that will render Froid unconscious but not kill him. He’s consulted some of the best minds on board the Lost Light, and he trusts them as far as he’ll ever trust anyone. 

Perceptor was wary when Sunder approached him and asked him for help. He wasn’t sure if he should teach Sunder about aerodynamics, physics, trajectory, force, and how resistance and effort and the fulcrum of intent can be leveraged to serve both a literal and metaphysical higher purpose. 

Perceptor had become very still and very quiet.

His genius brain had screamed silently within the confines of his head to rapidly analyse Sunder’s request. Sunder knew this was what was happening. And because Sunder understood what he was going through, Sunder didn’t hurry him. He just watched. 

He watched and waited.

The moment of decision came slowly to Perceptor. It was a triangle of condensed calculations poised on the tip of a larger triangle and Sunder could see it, he could see it tremble. He could see it start to tip over to one side and once it started - once it began its slide down a slope - it would be difficult to course correct it. It would be time consuming. It would be tempting to take a shortcut and Sunder has promised Rung that he won’t take those any more.

So Sunder had said out loud that consulting specialists regarding areas outside of his own area of expertise was part of his treatment plan. Rung had suggested it. Rung had advised him to take the initiative. Rung had encouraged him to choose the best. Perceptor could call Rung right now if he really wanted the reassurance.

Sunder had stared unblinking at Perceptor. 

Perceptor had hesitated.

Sunder had attempted a smile.

Perceptor had spun around and called Rung.

Sunder was telling the truth.

Perceptor’s relief was palpable. Sunder still wonders if he should feel insulted by it. But that’s not important. 

What was important was that Perceptor had agreed to teach Sunder all that he asked for. And Perceptor had enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed it a lot. Sunder understood that the distribution of knowledge as well as its discovery made Perceptor’s spark flare, and he only had to wait a short while for Perceptor’s genuine enthusiasm to break through his rapidly dissolving layers of suspicion and concern. They had enjoyed quite a nice time together - studying, learning, practicing. Sunder is sure that the reason Perceptor never looked him in the eyes again was because Perceptor had to focus. He didn’t want the distraction. He didn’t want to look at Sunder and didn’t want to engage in Sunder’s attempts at small talk because he was a professional. He didn’t want to appear to already be cultivating a friendly relationship with his student. Maybe that will come later. Sunder doesn’t know how to feel about that - about the delay or what has to be the inevitable outcome between them.

Sunder wonders if Perceptor ever feels guilty for how his brain is wired. He wonders if he should skip the small talk next time and carve a path straight to that question. Rung has encouraged him to engage in neutral conversation with his ship mates. But he’s also encouraged him to be direct with what he wants. Direct but subtle. Straight but curved. Sunder wonders how Rung can possibly stand being inside his own mind. It sounds like a nightmare. 

Sunder crouches down and examines the back of Froid’s head. He feels a slight dent in it, but there’s no cracking. No bleeding. No penetration. Froid isn’t broken. Sunder touches a specific area of Froid’s head with a fingertip and pushes down hard, and Froid’s leg kicks out in unconscious spasm. The blow has been delivered perfectly.

When Sunder had approached Pharma and asked him to teach him about the short term effects of a sudden and extreme application of external force to the back of the skull, Pharma’s eyes had lit up. 

Pharma hadn’t questioned Sunder or expressed any concern as to why he was asking about how long it would take someone to lose consciousness from blunt force trauma and how much pain they’d feel. There had been no need to invoke Rung’s name. But Sunder had done so anyway. To be polite. To follow a protocol he thinks Rung would want him to follow. Pharma had brushed Rung’s name away with the wave of a hand, as if that syllable was an irritating physical object that refused to stay in its place. Sunder had smiled.

And Pharma had smiled. 

Pharma had smiled in the way Sunder remembered from their time working together at The Institute all those years ago, during the times when Pharma had been assigned a mission that bled into the wrong side of grey and refused to stop hemorrhaging colour. And just like those times, Sunder had felt himself shrink without moving. Sunder still doesn’t know how it’s possible for Pharma to make him feel like that. Perhaps he’ll ask Perceptor about physics and optical illusions when he returns his broken hammer to him. Perhaps he’ll ask Rung about projections of personality.

It had taken a series of select words for Sunder to discourage Pharma from accompanying him on his task. Pharma had argued convincingly that he could provide assistance and further his medical education. His unblinking eyes had darkened and he’d smiled again. 

But Sunder had held firm. He didn’t want to upset Pharma by saying that his task was for him alone because it was part of his treatment plan, and he didn’t want to disappoint Pharma by saying that he couldn’t spend more time with him right now but perhaps in the future they could work together again, but Sunder had held firm and said all of that. And that was because Pharma wouldn’t stop smiling.

Pharma had eventually dipped his head in gracious defeat and wished Sunder the very best for his endeavours. He emphasised his desire for Sunder to drop by later on and tell him in detail how everything had gone. This was to help progres his education, because all procedures required a debriefing whereby the practitioner could share their findings, contribute to the general pool of knowledge, and learn from any mistakes so they could do even better next time. 

Pharma wouldn’t stop smiling and Sunder had agreed with him and thanked him and walked backwards out of the brightly lit medibay and Pharma wouldn’t stop smiling he didn’t stop smiling he’s probably still standing there smiling smiling smiling.

Sunder doesn’t want Pharma around for this because Pharma will twist the experience to make it revolve around him. 

“I’m going to do it here,” Sunder says out loud to Froid. “Because someone might see me.”

It’s OK if someone else sees what’s happening here, because they won’t shift the focus of attention to themselves. They’ll learn from what they’re seeing. They won’t try and take over. They might even be entertained. Sunder won’t approve of that if they are, but he’s not going to discourage them if they do. He’s not one to judge.

Sunder arranges Froid into a sitting position. Sunder kneels behind Froid so that Froid’s back is resting against his chest. Sunder’s chest spikes press into Froid’s plating like the bars of a one way cage, hard and sharp and insistent, but Froid doesn’t react.

“They might become inspired,” Sunder says conversationally, hopefully.

Sunder pushes Froid’s head down, so that his chin strains to touch his chest and the back of his neck is exposed. Sunder gently cradles Froid’s head. He can feel loose pieces floating underneath the unbroken surface.

“They might become enlightened.”

Sunder reaches for the hammer by his side. He picks it up carefully, mindful of the cracked handle. He examines the business end of the hammer, the flat face that caressed the back of Froid’s skull with the intense love that he deserved. Sunder kisses it. He turns the hammer around and rests the claw onto his lower lip.

He sucks it slowly into his mouth.

Perceptor taught him about hammers. He taught him the names of its constituent but unbroken parts. Apart from the handle and the claw, everything else is named after a body part: The face. The head. The cheek. The eye. The throat. Sunder suspects there’s double meanings in these choice of names, but he doesn’t have time to investigate them right now. Perhaps he’ll ask Rung about body parts coming together to make a condensed whole at his next therapy session. 

Sunder is learning to use new tools. It’s part of his rehabilitation. It’s something that Rung has suggested he undertake. 

Sunder bites down onto the claw of the hammer that’s sitting wet and warm inside his mouth. Rung suggested that learning to use instruments unconnected with his profession could serve a beneficial purpose: they would activate areas of his mind connected with external coordination and application, and would provide a bridge for him. By manipulating an external object with his hands and using that object to touch someone or something, he can create a physical distance between himself and them. It will be a check and a balance, a speed break, to prevent him from having direct access to them by using his formidable mental abilities. Sunder is unhappy with being the person everybody makes an effort to avoid, so he agreed to learn how to use tools in order to connect with someone. He wants to break bad habits and build new ones. Better ones. 

And he very much wants to connect with Froid. He has history with Froid. He wants to understand how Froid’s mind works and how he can connect with people the way he does. He has a lot to learn from Froid. But Froid has been reluctant to talk to Sunder in public and flat out refuses to do so in public, so Sunder has had to find another way to get inside Froid’s head. He’s had to take the initiative. 

Sunder slides the hammer’s claw back and forth against his teeth. Metal scrapes against metal and the claw sharpens and lengthens until Sunder has carved it into two stiletto thin blades. Sunder sucks it once more to christen it, and then slides it out of his mouth with a small wet pop.

Sunder bends his head and presses his lips up against Froid’s ear. A trickle of energon is crawling out of it. Sunder can feel the wetness crawling down Froid’s cheek and down Froid’s throat and it’s staining his plating and seeping into the microscopic cracks that riddle it and ahhhhhhhh Sunder can smell it now.

Sunder swipes some of Froid’s cranial fluid up with his thumb. He smears most of it onto Froid’s head and rubs the rest of it into one of Froid’s glassy and unseeing eyes.

“Now your important parts are covered,” Sunder tells him kindly. “They are protected. You are bridged.”

Sunder puts his tongue onto the base of Froid’s throat and licks him. With one unbroken lick he follows the trail of fluid up to Froid’s ear, and when he gets there he worms his tongue deep into it. Rung wouldn’t approve of this. Rung would tell Sunder to use a tool to clean up Froid’s cranial fluid, like a clean cloth or a dirty rag. Rung would tell him not to get so close to his object/subject/teacher and Rung knows this because Rung has done this. Rung reeks of sin for having an intimate relationship with a patient all those years ago. Sunder is unsure why Rung feels this way. There’s nothing for him to feel guilty about in that regard. Perhaps Sunder will ask Froid if Froid ever regains his power of speech.

Sunder supports Froid’s floppy head as he sucks his ear clean. He moves his head back until the antenna of his satellite dish is the only part of him touching Froid. He examines Froid’s ear. The trickle of cranial fluid is now watery and insubstantial. It’s drying up nicely. It’s going to be clean. And tidy. And better. Froid’s looking better and soon he’s going to feel better. Soon they’re both going to feel better.

Sunder sits up straight and pushes Froid’s head back down. There is a wet crunch of a sound and Sunder freezes. Perhaps he was a little too enthusiastic with his manipulations. Perhaps he should slow down. Perhaps it’s nothing to worry about. 

Sunder gently places the refined claw of the hammer onto Froid’s skull. He slowly drags it down, until the sharp tip snags a transformation seam at the base of Froid’s skull. Sunder plans to use the hammer as a crowbar. He has turned one tool into another and he is so very proud of himself. He hopes that Rung will be proud of him as well. Sunder isn’t going to dirty his mouth any more. He also hopes that Perceptor will understand the necessity of his hammer’s transformation, and will accept it back without being too upset. Perhaps Perceptor will be proud of him too.

Sunder uses the hammer to pry up a section of Froid’s cranial plating, up and up and up until it breaks its hinge with a satisfying snap.

Sunder puts the hammer between his teeth so that he has both hands free. With one hand he continues to support Froid’s head, and with the other he picks away the piece of cranial plating like a human would remove the cracked shell of a hard boiled egg. 

Sunder has watched Earth cookery shows with Swerve, and can make this analogy with confidence. 

A thick layer of globulous energon cushions the brain module from the cranial plating, and as Sunder lifts the piece of skull up and away, ropes of fluid keep it attached to the brain module. Sunder raises his arm high, and the ropes stretch and thin and refuse to break their connection. Sunder angles his head and uses the hammer clamped between his teeth to sever them. The piece is free. Sunder places it carefully on the floor beside him. 

He takes the hammer back into his hand and gets to work on the next piece of skull. 

This time he bites through the wet anchor of ropes that form. He has to reposition the hammer inside his mouth to cut through them, but he has space and teeth and time to spare. It’s quite an enjoyable side quest; it’s an added bonus to the main event; it’s a fun little challenge with a predetermined outcome that puts his skills to good use but doesn’t tax them.

Sunder removes multiple pieces of cranial plating and adds them to the neat stack at his side. Sunder wonders why there are so many individual pieces that make up Froid’s skull. It seems to be a poor design choice - there are many opportunities for failure that can be taken advantage of. It’s a medical and philosophical and mechanical question, and Sunder isn’t sure who he wants to ask about it.

Froid’s brain module is now fully exposed. There are still some pieces of skull left intact, pieces that curve down into his jaw and neck. The lower pieces. Like an Earth egg, not every piece of shell needs to be removed for the inside to be reached and enjoyed. But this is the first time Sunder has done this and will be the only time Sunder will do this, so he’s going to do it properly. 

Sunder pries and peels and plucks away every last piece of Froid’s face. 

Froid’s brain module trembles on its support cord. The scaffolding of his eyes and mouth and head remain in place and form an outline of his face. Froid now speaks of a temporary yet necessary pause in the grand workings of a place of power. He speaks of a clock stopping. Of its countdown starting. He whispers a promise of greater things to come and speaks of reconstruction and screams of glory.

“Your cathedral is beautiful,” Sunder tells Froid. 

“I promise to be respectful when I visit it,” Sunder tells his teachers.

“I will learn from it in the most fitting of ways,” Sunder tells himself.

Waterfalls of clear fluid cascade out of Froid’s brain module. It flows over his eyes and down the struts of his cheeks. It pools in the indentations of his teeth and flows down his throat and everything is sticky and wet and exposed. Sunder inhales deeply, and feels a delicious pressure in his chest. 

“It is my right to learn,” Sunder says to everyone. “It is my responsibility to better myself.”

Sunder cradles Froid’s brain module in one of his huge hands. He hesitates. And then extends his finger needles in a series of wet schlicks.

Sunder has worked hard with his external tools, but he knows some tasks require inbuilt abilities. Some tasks require a personal touch. His teachers would understand this.

Sunder dips his head and licks Froid’s brain module. His seat of power tastes of warm lead. Sunder tightens his cradling grip on Froid’s brain, adjusts the angle of his thumb, lines up his needle into a microscopic groove and hears a choked off scream. Without moving anything but his head, he slowly looks up. 

“Hello,” Sunder greets his unexpected visitor pleasantly, his gaping hollow eye pits darker than twin black holes. “Would you like to stay and watch? You can learn with me.”

There is a whirling of metal and a heavy thump of running feet and a sob and a scream. 

Their reaction is disappointing but not surprising. 

“You helped make me what I am,” Sunder tells Froid in the tone of a lover’s confession. “I want to understand that. That is my right.”

Sunder inserts a needle into Froid’s brain. 

“I want to improve upon what you have done to me. That is my responsibility.”

Sunder inserts another thin needle into Froid’s brain. And another one. Froid’s arms spasm and his legs jerk and his brain module lights up in a toxic checkerboard pattern of black and green biolights.

“And in order to improve upon something, I need to learn about it. And to learn about something, I need to experience it.”

Sunder injects his last two finger needles deep into Froid’s brain. 

“Rung is a good teacher. But is he better than you?”

Froid’s entire body spasms and clicks and leaks. Transformation protocols stutter and fail and lines of self-preservation code flicker and dissolve into nothing. Froid’s higher brain activities scream for an answer and receive one from his ruined vocaliser and there’s a snap, a fizz, a series of clicks and Froid’s eyes snap wide open.

“I’m going to find out.”

Froid rolls his exposed eyes into the back of what was once his skull. He looks upside down into Sunder’s hollow eye pits and his wide wet smile. 

“Don’t worry,” Sunder says reassuringly, “I won’t be inside your head for too long.”

Sunder pushes his fingers inside Froid’s brain as deep as they will go. 

“I don’t want to lose myself again.”

He leans forward, angles his head towards Froid’s eyes, and opens his mouth wide.


End file.
